


The Black Swan

by Lunasong365



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Historical References, Paris - Freeform, Reign of Terror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8072290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365
Summary: During the Reign of Terror, Paris 1793, Aziraphale and Crowley get caught up in events that neither of them could have foreseen.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sous_le_saule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/gifts).
  * Translation into Français available: [Le Cygne noir](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913666) by [Lunasong365](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365), [sous_le_saule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule)



> Author Note: In event forecasting, a “black swan event” is one so deviant from the norm that it is extremely difficult to predict in advance. The author is extremely grateful for the beta assistance of [catastrophiccourtesy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/catastrophiccourtesy), who helped with the French and whose suggestions made this a better story.  
> For [sous-le-saule](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/), who has inspired me in all things French. Even though she’s not. : )

_Paris, late October 1793_

“That,” said Crowley, “was a rather excellent dinner.”

“ _En effet_ ,” sighed Aziraphale agreeably. “No doubt even more because I paid for it.”

The two rather sated associates were ambling along the Seine, whose ripples were sparkling in the waning crescent moon. Fallen leaves herded by an errant breeze scurried along the walkway and collected along the low wall edging the riverbank, enhancing the misleadingly tranquil autumn atmosphere.

It was not the most peaceful of times in Paris, and this evening was no exception. In the distance, muffled shouting could be heard, no doubt yet another political demonstration. Unrest had been the rule even before the Constitution had been ratified and King Louis XVI had been executed, the highest-ranked victim of the brutally efficient guillotine. The newly-chartered government was still fighting amongst itself. Beheadings were common public entertainment, and no one was ever quite sure which faction was currently in power.

Crowley had already received three commendations for his supposed activities during the Reign of Terror1, the most recent being for the secularization of _Notre-Dame de Paris_ under the Cult of Reason, the French government’s official rejection of the existence of a Deity. Crowley, who’d had rather close experience with the existence of a Deity, had merely shaken his head and added the latest to the pile.

 

     1[This doesn’t include his commendation _avec honneur_ for the lyrics of _La Marseillaise_. Crowley had later heard a rabble of _sans-culottes_ singing it in the street and had nearly thrown up.]

 

The enormous cathedral had been deconsecrated, but still dominated the cityscape. Crowley and Aziraphale started to cross the _Pont au Double_ toward the imposing landmark. “Look,” said Aziraphale, halting Crowley’s progress by grasping his arm. “There’s swans on the river.”

Startled by the sudden contact, Crowley paused and directed his gaze toward where Aziraphale was already hanging over the bridge railing. “ _Ah, oui_ ,” Crowley observed. “They must be descendants from when one of the former kings kept a _menagerie_ of swans on an island _près d'ici_.”

“But there’s a _cygne noir._ ” Aziraphale pointed, enchanted. “I didn’t know there were black swans in Europe.”

Crowley joined him on the railing to observe the waterfowl. “It’s not native,” he edified. “They’re originally from Australia.”

Aziraphale made a face, but added, “There’s a saying about black swans. They are a metaphor for unforeseen events with major effects that are afterwards rationalized with hindsight.”

This time it was Crowley who made the face. “Plenty of that going on around here,” he muttered, steering the angel away from the railing and back toward the cathedral. Aziraphale looked back one more time, but acquiesced to join his friend.

Entering the south door, Crowley procured a bottle of wine from under his coat. He grinned at Aziraphale and nodded his head upward toward the tower. “Care to join me?”

Aziraphale wryly marveled that being inside one of the greatest churches of Christendom had absolutely no effect on the demon. “I know that there’s 387 stairs to the top and I’m not climbing them.” He held out his hand. “ _Tu te joins à_ moi _?_ ”

They materialized on the outside landing of the tower next to a particularly grotesque gargoyle. Crowley patted it fondly. “People and their imaginations,” he commented. “I find it ironic that these cute little hell-pets decorate a church. And now this whole cathedral has been dedicated to the ideals of _Liberté, Raison, et Vérité._ If there’s a _vérité_ that been reinforced by this seemingly unending _Révolution,_ it’s that people are capable of more stomach-churning horror than anything anyone _En Bas_ can devise.” He opened the bottle and took a swig.

Aziraphale added, “But grace as well. The more dreadful the situation gets, the more opportunity there is for redemption.” Crowley stared in disbelief at his friend and handed him the bottle.

“It’s ineffable, you see,” continued the angel. “It’s one of the reasons I’ve here in Paris. One can’t really believe that outlawing the Church is going to destroy it. Confidentially,” he added, “I’ve hosted several meetings of forcibly-abjured priests at the _librarie_.” Aziraphale drank half the bottle, wiped his mouth, and refilled it. He gazed out over the city. “ _Elle est belle_ from up here.”

It truly was. The moon was still low in the east, and overhead, the Milky Way was brilliantly visible as a densely-scattered pathway across the dome of the sky. Oil lamps dotted the streets, and here and there a glowing window indicated that someone else was awake. Plotting destruction or making love? In Paris, one could never be sure, except that alcohol was probably involved.

Crowley frowned and took back the bottle. “Don’t try to change the subject. You could get them killed. It’s against the law to be a clergyman.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I won’t be the one getting them killed. And I know it’s not really you or Hell, either. It’s the humans. They’re trying to devise a superior religion, but it still all comes from the minds of people.”

“And humans are capable of some of the most inhumane actions.” His counterpart nodded and tilted the bottle to his lips.

“And some of the most amazingly contradictory.” Aziraphale crossed the open landing to the bell tower. “See this bell? The _révolutionnaires_ wanted to remove it and melt it down, but I was able to convince them otherwise. _Les cloches de Notre-dame ont des noms._ Do you know the name of this one?”

Crowley studied the massive 13-ton bell. “ _Oui_ ,” he answered. “ _Emmanuel_. God is with us.”

 

****

 

Crowley awoke languorously, stretching and yawning, then sat up with a start. Something was missing. What was missing? He slithered out of bed and pulled aside the curtain from his window, squinting through the midday sunbeam that breached the dim sanctuary of his _appartement_. There were a number of men in the streets shouting at one another, but that was _la norme_ these days. The nagging feeling of absence was unsettling. He dressed with a thought and, slipping a pair of tinted lenses over his eyes, headed downstairs and out to the street to see about the news of the day.

The demon had always been a keen observer of human nature. It allowed him to be damnedly efficient at doing his job so he could get back to doing what he enjoyed. He really did try to create the appearance of performing his duties well, as being here on Earth as Agent of Hell was underworlds better than the alternative. 

Hell didn’t care how he got results as long as he was able to report results, and Crowley had learned that human reactions were relatively predictable. He was able to fill out reports months in advance, and even if events didn’t happen exactly as he had forecast, they were not that far off the mark.

 _Angel, let’s get out of Paris. It’s too bloody… bloody. I’m not really doing anything here, and neither are you. Let’s go back to London… I’ve still got that _ [ _leaseholding_ ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4007665) _in Mayfair and you always find something…_

Aziraphale had refused.

Crowley reflected on his conversation with Aziraphale in the bell tower from a few evenings ago. _Merde_ , the angel was stubborn. He thought he was still doing some good here in Paris when it was obvious… it was obvious…

 _Putain de merde!_ What was obvious was that the angel was gone! Crowley had gotten so used to always being able to sense the angel’s aura that it hadn’t immediately been apparent that it was missing. He started to run toward the _quartier_ where Aziraphale had his bookshop.

Crowley burst through the open door of the _librarie._ He was accustomed to Aziraphale’s carefully curated disorganization, but at least the angel always used shelves or stacks. The bookshop was in shambles. There were volumes scattered all over the floor, with loose pages ripped and defiled by muddy footprints. Crowley stooped in the wreckage, looking for a clue to the angel’s whereabouts. A passerby noticed Crowley in the shop.

“ _Il est parti_ ,” the man announced, as if gleefully dispensing common knowledge. He drew hard on his cigarette and added, “He was hiding _des membres du clergé_ in the shop and they all got arrested the other night. I can only guess what happened next.” The man made a cutting motion against his neck. “Szzzzzt!”

Crowley staggered to his feet. He wanted to smack the sickening grin off the man’s face, but instead whispered, “ _Merci_.” In a daze he retraced his steps back to the _appartement._

If Aziraphale had been discorporated, it would be the first time it had happened that Crowley hadn’t been the one to do it. It had been well over 800 years since the last instance. Not knowing for sure what had occurred was disconcerting. Being all alone without the constant reassurance that the angel was somewhere was unsettling. Not knowing what would happen next was _très terrifiant._

He stumbled to the wine rack and pulled the first bottle he saw, not bothering with niceties like his exquisite collection of lead crystal goblets. Uncorked, the pale _vin blanc_ poured down his throat, burning his stomach and numbing the immediate shock. _Humains._ What would happen if a human killed an angel? As far as Crowley knew, the event was unprecedented.

He shivered in the chill of his apartment ( _bien sûr, il était à cause du froid!_ ) and lit the fire in the hearth. He sank into an armchair, bottle in hand, and moodily stared at the flames.

It was a reminder of everything he was trying to avoid.

When Crowley had sauntered down from Heaven, he’d thought he’d be improving his lot, but he hadn’t really felt he belonged in Hell either. He’d jumped at the chance to leave, not yet fully recognizing his greatest weakness – his inability to be alone. After centuries on Earth of sometimes brutal, often sly opposition, he’d developed an unlikely alliance with the angel, supposedly his enemy but now his _camarade_. When he was with Aziraphale, he felt a connection to something… was it a tenuous link back to God? Or was it just having a friend – someone who understood you better than anyone else on Earth (or Hell or Heaven – Crowley had passed through all three). Even when physically far apart, knowing the angel was _quelque part_ was a comfort.

Crowley drank deeply and curled up in the chair, hugging the bottle.

_L'ange a disparu._

He wasn’t above lying to himself. He’d often bragged to Aziraphale how much pleasure he got from sleep. The true pleasure was the escape from constant fear. When Crowley was asleep, he wasn’t afraid of being dragged back to Hell. He was no longer concerned about not meeting their incessant and often illogical demands and quotas. He didn’t worry that one day his carefully constructed _façade_ of competence might come crashing down. And Aziraphale – _eh bien,_ Aziraphale _était toujours à ses côtés_.

At least until the nightmare started.

 

 _Crowley and Aziraphale were climbing a ladder, high enough to see all of Paris. “Look,” commented Aziraphale. “See how beautiful it is?” But Crowley, above him, could see a mob of_ citoyens _gaining on them. “Climb faster, Aziraphale!” he had shouted. They reached the top of the ladder which led to… nowhere. Crowley had manifested his wings and so had Aziraphale, but someone in the crowd snared Aziraphale by the leg before he could take flight. Crowley had hovered, paralyzed by dreamshock, as Aziraphale, now transformed into a black swan, was swung by his feet around in dizzying circles until a leering man smoking a cigarette produced a large ax and chopped through the swan’s slender neck…_

Crowley awoke in a sweat and stumbled toward the basin in the corner, retching. He had tried to save Aziraphale! He had warned him, had tried to convince him to leave… _tu… tu ange stupide._ He sat at his desk in despair and held his face in his hands and snuffled loudly. Just an aftereffect of being sick, he told himself. Get it together. You’re a demon, for Go.. for Sa… for  Somebody’s sake. Maybe even Reason, since that’s what the humans now chose to worship.

He wiped his face and nose with a handkerchief. _Raison._ The reasonable thing to do was to accept the angel was gone and carry on. The illogical path, the one filled with Faith, Hope, and Lo… (here he snuffled again) would be to carry on and believe the angel was coming back.

 

**

 

Crowley liked the city in the early morning. Its population consisted almost entirely of people who had proper work to do, as opposed to _les nobles et les bourgeois._ The air was filled with scents: the heady smell of fresh baking from _patisseries et boulangeries_ , or roasting meat, brewing coffee, or a cart of fresh fish destined for the _marché aux poissons_. The streets were filled with citizens who had somewhere to go: heading to market or one of the many workshops and factories near the center of Paris.

Uncharacteristically, Crowley, who loved to people-watch, ignored them. His singular focus was to get to the river.

He prowled _la Rive Gauche_ , searching for a sign, something he desired with all his supposedly non-existent heart.

 

The black swan was still there.

By a miracle of grace or an occult superstition; it didn’t matter which one. Crowley wanted to believe.

It was standing on the shore on one dusky leg with its head tucked under its wing. Sensing the demon’s presence, it lifted his head and warily took to the water. It shook out its feathers and waggled its tail, then glided serenely away against the current with the rest of the disturbed flock.

It was a good omen, and that wasn’t Reasonable at all. Crowley began to smile. Then he grinned. He laughed. He grabbed a dour-looking servant and spun her around in a _pas de deux impromptu_. He tossed a few _sous_ to a beggar. He bought a _bouquet de fleurs_ from a street _vendeur_ and bowing, handed them to a surprised cart driver. Passersby looked curiously at the ebullient young man in the dark glasses.

Then whistling softly to himself, hands in pockets, he sauntered back to the apartment.

Crowley had come up with a cunning plan: he was going to sleep for a century to ensure that by the time he woke up again, Aziraphale would be back.

And when he woke up, it certainly wasn’t going to be in Paris.

A sudden invasion of mice and spiders made certain the top floor flat on his London property would be vacant and waiting for him.

Settling down at his writing desk, Crowley slid open the drawer and pulled out a sizeable stack of infernal stationery and his fancy new steel fountain pen and ink reservoir. He chewed thoughtfully on his thumb for a moment, then set nib to _papier_.

He spent the rest of the day coming up with a hundred years’ worth of reports for Hell, _chaque prédiction plus outrageuse que la dernière_. 2 He folded each lettersheet and sealed it with wax, then added a subtle date to the outside of each one.

 

2[see end for a partial list of 19th century events for which Crowley took credit.]

 

He snapped his fingers to transport all his _chic_ furnishings to London. An instant later, he followed.

 

**

 

Crowley carefully set the stack of letters on his writing desk in the correct date order to ensure proper dispatch. He then took one last look around the flat before retiring.

_I’ll definitely need to redecorate. After all, I’m English now. But it can wait._

He fluffed his mountain of pillows and pulled back the bedcovers to slip inside.

_Ah… bonne nuit… heu… non._

Sweet dreams, demon.

 

***

 

 

 

Some 19th Century Events for which Crowley Took Credit

 

La Marseillaise is adopted as the French national anthem

Napoleon.

Men’s trousers and the modern suit and tie.

The term “missionary position."

A novel about a human-created monster that sparked a new genre of fiction.

The return of a prissy dance called the gavotte.

The principle of Manifest Destiny.

The women’s suffrage movement.

Another novel about the never-ending political revolution in France in which most of the main characters die.

Impressionist art.

Replacing clean wind and water power with coal and petroleum.

A certain orchestral overture that celebrates the defeat of the French with live cannon fire.

The invention of the horseless carriage.

 

The reader is invited to come up with their own additions!

**Author's Note:**

> If all you know about the French Revolution is the date 1789 and _Les Misérables_ , this is a useful link that also contains an embedded link with more on the Reign of Terror.  
> 


End file.
